Bags of Flesh
by AZ-woodbomb
Summary: A series of bizarre murders shake the city of Gotham. The victims are all found in peculiar, eerily lifelike poses.
1. Chapter 1

On a cold, quiet night, the moon shines down on a lonely house in suburban Gotham. It is surrounded by a score of identical houses, filled with identical people, leading identical lives. But they are unimportant. Only in this one is anything meaningful occurring. The people in this house have been chosen to be relieved of their long, meaningless suffering. Their liberator smiles peacefully as he thrusts his hand forward.

There's nothing like feeling your knife slide into someone. Nothing like the ecstasy of watching the blood flow. Nothing like hearing their muffled pain. Holding them as they shiver and shake. Humming into their ears as they go. He only hopes they can see it as he does. He is setting them free.

Later he smiles to himself as he stares up at his work. Even the most artless could see the terrifying beauty in this. Blood falls soothingly to the floor, tiny sounds tapping against his consciousness. He holds out two fingers and waits patiently as they are drenched, then walks over to the wall.

Later still he walks out, leaving the door open. He disappears into the night's cold, loving embrace.

* * *

><p>In the morning the house is filled with police. The victims still sway and dance in the air. Flashes from cameras light up the rooms, footfalls sound on the floors, someone runs outside and vomits. Time passes, a gruff voice booms out a command and the dancers are taken down.<p>

In the evening they are all gone. The house is dark and foreboding, cordoned off by layers of tape telling people to stay away. A thick stillness hangs in the air. The house is as quiet as its owners.

* * *

><p>That night two men meet on a dark rooftop. One has a cigarette in his mouth, the smoke and his graying hair play in the breeze. The other stands in the shadows, his black costume blending into the darkness around him.<p>

"Double homicide last night. Elderly couple. Nothing missing from the house but photographs. No apparent reason. No obvious suspect."

He pulls an envelope out of his gray overcoat.

"Stab wounds. Weapon not found on scene. Victims bound and nailed together. Hung from the ceiling."

The dark figure leafs through the pictures and the report.

"Plenty of fingerprints, nothing that matches our database. Neighbors saw nothing. A friend found them this morning. No sign of forced entry, but an unlocked window on the second floor allowed a way in. Footprints in the flowerbed below."

The man in the shadows holds out a picture. It shows a wall with a solitary word written on it in red: _Free_

"**And this?**"

The old man takes one last drag of his cigarette, then throws it to the ground.

"You tell me."

* * *

><p>There's nothing like the feeling of your knife biting into your skin. Nothing like the ecstasy of the cut. Nothing like watching the blood flow. Nothing like imagining the perfect freedom that could be yours if you only cut a little deeper.<p>

He strokes his older scars. They hold meaning, even if he had not found the beauty back then. He never wants to forget.

He looks out into the dark, dark night and shivers. He can hardly wait.


	2. Chapter 2

"It's going to be alright. Shh, shh. It's okay."

He rests his chin on the back of the other man's head as he holds him in his arms.

"Don't be scared."

In one blindingly fast motion he slashes the man's throat. His mouth goes slack in awe of the spurt that flies from the wound. He watches with wide-eyed admiration as the wall in front of them is sprayed. He holds the man's head with one hand, keeps the other encircled around his waist, keeping the twitching figure steady.

Later the dead man sits in front of his television, lounging lazily on the sofa. He has one hand in a nearly empty bowl of snacks. His blood on the wall tells the truth.

Later still the deliverer walks out into the hallway, leaves the door open just an inch. Draws his baseball cap down over his face as someone passes him on the way down. He opens another set of doors and disappears into the cold night.

* * *

><p>In the afternoon the apartment is filled with men in blue. They stare at the couch potato with either disgust or detachment in their eyes. Flashes light up the apartment, footsteps wander between the wall and the dead man. Eventually he is removed.<p>

In the evening all are gone. The door is closed off with tape. There is a thick stillness in the air. This place, too, is deathly quiet.

* * *

><p>Two men meet in a poorly lit park. A gray-haired man and his cigarette are all that is visible to possible passersby. He sits on a bench, speaking low. Behind him, hidden among the trees, is his ally.<p>

"Another murder. Same perp. Getting cocky, killing only two nights after the first. Victim was a young man, lived alone. Nothing seems to be missing from the apartment."

He pulls out an envelope, offers it to the darkness.

"Slit throat. Weapon not found on scene. Victim murdered in one end of the room, moved over to the coach, put into a pose."

The darkness snatches the envelope.

"Plenty of fingerprints, match the others. Again, not on file. One witness, claims he saw a man in the hallway late in the night. Nondescript clothing, baseball cap covering his face, average height, average build. Useless. The door looks to have been forced open with a crowbar, no sign of that either. Fibers on an armchair in the living room, matches fibers from the first crime scene. Probably the hoodie. Theory is he takes his clothes off so as not to get them bloody."

The envelope is thrown back onto the bench. The gray-haired man pockets it.

"**And that message again.**"

The old man takes a last drag, throws the cigarette into a nearby trashcan.

"Yeah. That again."

They go their separate ways.

* * *

><p>He rests his chin on his hand, traces his fingers along the newspaper with a smile on his lips. He fondly stares at a framed photo lying on the table.<p>

He grabs his knife, cuts slowly. Breathes through his teeth. Licks his lips.

He looks out into the cold, cold night and shivers. He can hardly wait.


	3. Chapter 3

Finally, she has given up hope. She put up a surprisingly stiff resistance. But now she is done, can do nothing but pant in tune to his calm breathing.

"Tell me," he whispers by her ear. "Who will mourn for you?"

She shivers, mutters something, whimpers in helpless anger, finally shouting out.

"F-f-fuck you! Pathetic piece of shit!"

He stares out the window with a distant smile. The sky outside is cloudless, an endless black pit staring down at them.

"Don't be scared. It's going to be alright."

She resumes her struggles, growing feebler by the second. He turns her around, puts a hand around her neck and raises her into the air. A tiny smile plays around his lips as he stares into her eyes. So empty, so dull. Much like the world, made out of nothing but dull grays and whites.

And glorious, vibrant red. He plunges his knife through her flesh, tears through her muscles, stops as he hits bone.

"I will mourn for you."

He stares into her wide, bulging eyes. She's still reeling, her mouth half open in shock. He draws the knife out slowly, mournfully. Her legs tread air, trying to find solid ground, trying to struggle. Her body flinches this way and that as he stabs her again and again.

* * *

><p>Elsewhere, a gruff looking man enters a seedy bar. His eyes run quickly over the faces, recognizing most. He dismisses all as harmless, but locates the exits just in case. Only a handful are armed, the lights can be taken out with minimal effort, there is plenty of cover. If things go wrong it should only take a minute to neutralize the threat.<p>

He finishes his leisurely stroll toward the table and asks for a drink. Chats the bartender up as usual, hints at the murders.

"Terrible business, that. Sounds like a real sicko, if what the news is sayin' is fer real."

He looks around suspiciously, leans in closer to the bartender.

"But what are th' streets sayin', Bernie?"

The bartender leans in closer as well.

"Not a peep. There's plenty of sadist pigs in this little town, but ain't nobody got a clue who this guy is. Definitely ain't a hitman or a cleaner decided to get his jollies. I betcha this is one'a 'em crazy Norman Bates types. The mobs don't like it one bit. Whole underworld is sufferin' more attention, just so the cops can make it look like they're doin' somethin'."

He scratches his ratty beard, curses low.

"An' nobody seen nuthin'?"

The barkeep absentmindedly cleans out a glass.

"Well, I don' really think so. But there is one, right here in this bar. Pretty Boy Floyd, over there in the corner, been talkin' all night long about how he ran inta the guy. Sounds like a load a bull ta me, but who knows?"

He looks over at the man in question.

"I'll see for myself, I guess. Thanks, Bernie."

"Any time, Matches."

He walks over to the man, who's currently whispering something into the ear of a man sitting next to him. Matches plops himself down at their table.

"Hey, Floyd. Hear ya got a pretty story ta tell."

Floyd turns around with an unfriendly smile.

"That's a story I done told too many times t'night. Get lost, friend."

He turns back to his companion.

"I'll buy ya a drink."

Floyd turns back around, raises a questioning eyebrow.

"Whatcha drinkin', kid?"

Floyd smiles.

"Sippin' on gin and juice."

Matches stands up and walks slowly back to the bar. He sneaks a look back at Floyd as he orders. Laid back, he's talking to his next seat neighbor again. Matches strides back over to them, slides the glass over to Floyd.

"There's yer payment, kid. Now spill."

Floyd grins, leans across the table.

"Okay, so there I was, two weeks back, middle a' the night, drunk off my arse. Me an' my friend Joe are stumblin' along down some wet, ugly alley, singing to the skies, engaging in polite conversation, that sort of stuff."

He takes a sip of his free drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"So, yeah, there we are, when all of a sudden we hear this big ol' yell. An' I mean a real scream, straight outta some slasher film. An' a door slams open an' out jumps this chickie, paler 'an death himself. But as soon she done cleared the doorway, don't just some hand shoot out and grab her by the hair, pull her screamin' carcass straight back in. An' judgin' by the sounds of it, some right old violence goin' down."

He's still grinning. Matches bites down on his repulsion and listens.

"So me an' Joe is just standin' there, fuckin' wide-eyed and gapin'. Or well, I am, Joe's still throwin' up just behind me. An' then this head pops out the door, ta look if somebody seen him bein' all naughty naughty. An' a course his eyes settle right on yours truly, still gapin' like an idiot. So out he comes. An' this right old fucker's the weirdest thing that I seen for a looong time. He's buff as hell, not big, but ridiculous muscles abound, not an inch a' fat, just fuckin' steel or somethin'. An' there on his chest sit a number of pretty little markings, countin' up one-two-three-four-five, a whole bunch a these things, these scars. Like he's been countin' the days since he lost his buggerin' mind or somethin'!"

Floyd laughs long and loud, gulps down some of his friend's beer.

"So anyways, he stands there an' stares at us, an' me an' Joe, who's just stopped vomitin' his guts out, stare back. Bizarre old moment, I tell ya. We gapin' like old ladies who just heard a raunchy joke, him standin' there calm as can be. Then he lifts up a big ol' knife, lets it glint in the tiny light. An' the crazy bugger says to us, and I quote: "Do you want to be free?"

Matches tenses.

"I been backin' up ever since the chickie got done, so I was now side by side with Joe. An' I see him pullin' out his piece. Drunk as he was, Joe was still a pretty quick draw. But I hardly done blinked my eyes and suddenly that nasty cutter's stickin' from my pal's throat, ol' Joe gurglin' all over the place. I turn tail and run, hear the nutter runnin' behind me, devil's footsteps comin' closer and closer as I huff and puff my wasted butt outta there. An' just as I round the corner, hearin' jolly old voices singin' not far away, don't there come another knife whizzin' through the air, slicin' up my shoulder and ruinin' my shirt?"

He shakes his head, taps his shoulder.

"I could show ya if you don't believe me."

"I believe you. Go on."

Floyd licks his lips.

"Yeah, where was I? Right! I run away, scared like a little kid who's just seen the Joker. An' what do I find out the day after? Two bodies they find, lyin' around with blood all over. Both corpses looked a little funny, they thought, not the usual ways for corpses to lie around in, they said. They brushed it off then, but now it fits, what with all them poses the bastard seems to get off on. Rushed it this time, though, for obvious reasons, I should guess. Chickie was still lyin' by the doorway, but had her face in her hands. An' they found my man Joe propped up against the wall like a moonshiner, hat down over his face, bottle clenched tight in his hand."

Matches leaned closer.

"Where was this?"

Floyd downs his gin, laughs.

"Where else, brother? In the Narrows, your number one stop for knife-wieldin' psychos and nasty killings."

"Where exactly, Floyd?"

Floyd grins.

"Haha, what? Why? Ya goin' after him or somethin'? Ah, what do I care? There's this whorehouse that raised a bit of a ruckus not long back…Remember that guy who supposedly worked for Riddler an' got sliced and diced a few weeks ago? Ain't nobody sure just who killed him, but his boss and the brothel are the main suspects. He cut up one of the girls there, it raised all kinds a' trouble. People were crappin' themselves over the idea of the cathouse and its mob owners gettin' in a war with a rogue. Everything was real tense for days, then nothin' happens. You know this city's getting weird when a corpse turns up in a barrel an' everyone's all peaceful 'bout it. But yeah, it was somewhere round there, real close to that whorehouse."

Floyd chuckles, burps. Matches gets up and leaves without a word.

* * *

><p>At the break of dawn the two men speak once more, this time in a parking garage.<p>

"Another one. Woman, early 30's, multiple stab wounds. Propped up in the window behind the blinds, silhouette made it look like she was smoking. Neighbor reported it after he noticed she hadn't moved for hours. No other witnesses. We've looked back on some cases, which, at worst, could raise his death toll as high as 15. That means he may have been active for as much as six weeks, not just one. Haven't found a real pattern to the murders yet, only places he hasn't killed is in the Palisades and the financial district. The victims have little in common, from teenage gang members to senior citizens to a professional athlete."

The old man takes a drag on his cigarette.

"**Any leads on the weapons he's used?**"

The commissioner taps a bundle of reports lying on the hood of his car.

"He uses a variety of knives, if he really is responsible for all of these. The victims have differing wounds. So far we believe he's used various types of combat knives and in one instance throwing knives. We examined one of the latter, found at the scene of the double homicide you mentioned. Not much to go on, so far all possible suppliers have denied knowledge."

The Batman picks up the reports, leafs through them.

"**Pin-pointing his location is impossible at this point, but the number of locations this man can hide are limited. He has no plausible allies among the underworld**. **It's highly unlikely that he could be your average suburban citizen, it would be near impossible for him to remain undetected among the populace seeing how frequently he operates. As long as we can't figure out the pattern, our best bet is to comb the least populated parts of the Narrows, run-down businesses and warehouses.**"

Gordon puts out his cigarette, adjusts his glasses.

"I've already increased patrols in the Narrows. So far it's only served to increase clashes with the local gangs. Some of them are even trying to hunt him down themselves. Aside from that, we've received countless tips, concerning suspicious individuals in various areas of the Narrows. Most of them paranoid ramblings, but the point stands: The whole city is against him. The Narrows are not a haven."

He hands over a list to the dark clad man standing across from him.

"Here's the ground we've covered so far. And the ones we're going for next. It should narrow down your possibilities. We've got a whole lot left of that crumbling junkyard to inspect, but we'll find him. No matter what."


	4. Chapter 4

His dreams are troubled. A score of faces stare up at him from coroner's reports, their blank and unseeing eyes drawing him in. He sees blood stained walls, the thick liquid seeping slowly downwards. He sees a flash of a knife, gleaming cold. It flies straight at him, his heart skips as it hits.

He returns as a red drop of rain above the city, falling softly down with a torrent of brethren. They land on the tallest spires, roll past windows and brick, soak all the way down, flow along the streets, fall into the gutters and vanish.

He climbs back up in the form of a man, runs along the streets of his city so red. For an eternity he runs in inescapable circles through a jungle of concrete, the buildings and streets shifting and turning. He forces himself to run faster and faster, until his body starts to slow down and his breath hitches, until he collapses in the exact spot where he started. He rolls over, stares up at the skyscrapers, rain falling slick and warm into his face as he tries to breathe. As he stares blankly, people start appearing in the distance, their bodies grotesquely broken and twisted.

There is a man that he must find. A man he cannot find. All the connections and patterns that have become second nature to him are worthless. The man is random, cunning and so far nigh invisible. All the evidence has lead nowhere. The buildings shift and turn, offering this predator refuge whenever he seeks it. There is a new animal loose in the jungle. Where does it hide?

His body disperses to the wind, his consciousness soars into the sky and glides on the currents as a flock of bats. He flies into the Narrows, drops into one of the countless dilapidated blocks, slips through the walls of a dark building. It's a crumbling apartment, empty. Faces smile up at him from the ground. A silhouette of a man stands in the doorway. There is a knife in his hand.

"I do believe this is neither healthy nor a viable way to strike fear into the hearts of criminals, Master Bruce."

He wakes slowly, his eyes focusing on the hard surface under his face before traveling upward to rest on a familiar figure staring down at him. He slowly raises his head, takes a look at the time. He feels around his face to make sure the mask is on, then stands up and strides away.

"I have to get going."

A quiet sigh escapes the butler's lips.

* * *

><p>The Batman speeds along on a motorcycle, racing toward his next destination in this festering labyrinth commonly known as the Narrows. The streets are uncharacteristically empty, only the occasional vagrant or group of thugs prowling the night. Luckily the gangs scatter at the sight of him, rather than try shooting at him. Therapeutic as it might be to beat them into the ground, he has no time to waste. Tonight's quarry is far more dangerous than the riffraff he speeds past.<p>

Finally he reaches his destination, hiding his vehicle in a particularly dark alley. He sets out on foot, glides along the windows, checking for signs of use in the abandoned buildings, climbing up to the roof where he thinks it will support him, forcing his way into the places he thinks most suitable for the murderer's purposes. A long quarter of an hour passes before he clears the whole area. He gets back on his bike and speeds off into the night, another neighborhood on his list checked off.

Alfred's voice drones in his ear, reporting new information delivered from Gordon. His detectives have cleared another row of potential hideouts. The patrols in the Narrows have nothing to report, although one of them swears he saw the Batman. None of the patrol routes will go anywhere near the Batman's planned targets, thanks to the commissioner's co-operation.

Five minutes later he is at his next destination, repeating the earlier process. In another ten he has checked all the buildings and is off again. Another report from Gordon, more territory checked off, no word of any activity from the killer. Maybe the police presence in the Narrows has scared him off. His patience is wearing thin. He feels like cursing.

* * *

><p>Almost an hour later he stands in a run-down apartment. It is the seventh such apartment he enters that night, the second that does not contain inhabitants scared witless. Another difference is that this one has even less furniture. But the fact that definitely sets it apart from the rest are framed photographs lying on the living room floor. Quite a few of them look familiar. With a closer glance he identifies three of the last victims among them.<p>

His eyes roam over the rest of the room, landing finally on a tattered carpet in the middle of it. He whisks it away, removes the loose planks under it, revealing a black bag hidden under the floor. He pulls it up, rolls out the fabric. And stares at a row of sharp knives, with four empty slots in the line-up.

He makes sure the hole is empty before scanning the rest of the apartment. He enters the kitchen, notes a few newspapers on the table, along with a phone book. He leafs through it quickly, nothing catches his eye. He goes through the cupboards of the kitchen, finds nothing but vast amounts of canned food. He goes through the pages of the phone book again, slowly. This time he notices a tiny slit along one name. The name of one Baldwin Becker has been cut into. The old man who'd been murdered along with his wife and hung from the ceiling.

Batman scours the pages as fast as he can, ticking off another victim's name, and another, until finally he comes to one he does not recognize. Jason Warren, a resident of the palisades.

He calls Alfred and tells him to get both locations to Gordon as he runs outside and races off on his motorcycle.

* * *

><p>He doesn't bother to hide the vehicle, just jumps off and starts running. The manor looms before him, dark and foreboding. Not even the light by the door is on. He finds the door locked, with no signs of having been forced in. He proceeds to pick the lock open, sneaks in and leaves the door ajar behind him.<p>

No sound comes from the gaping darkness before him. He turns on the night-vision in his cowl, quickly takes in the details of the foyer. It is devoid of life, the furniture and walls look old, unkept and musty. A chair has been knocked over and the carpet is mussed.

He makes his way to a door on the left and enters the living room. It is similarly dark, but on the table stands a half empty bottle of wine and two glasses. And on the floor at the end of the room lies a man face down on the floor. Batman moves swiftly and silently, identifies the man as the now deceased lord of the manor.

A muffled shout from the adjacent room grabs his attention. He opens the door to find an elderly butler standing in the middle of a library, a knife inching closer and closer towards his neck. The owner of the knife freezes at the Batman's entrance.

Neither of them moves. The knife-wielder stares at the dark intruder with calm, unblinking eyes. The Batman stares right back, taking in the man's details as he calculates his chances of hitting him with a batarang without harming the hostage. The killer is shirtless, what little of his chest and arms that are visible lined with wiry muscle. His head is shaved, his face unremarkable and emotionless. His left hand is out of view, hidden behind the hostage's body, possibly concealing a weapon. The seconds tick on. The only movement in the dark is the quiet shivering of the butler.

Finally, without warning, both combatants throw their weapons at the same time. Both dive away to evade, the released butler falls to his knees. But while the Batman jumps closer towards the hostage, the killer makes for the light switch. The room is bathed in brilliant, blinding light and the Batman's night-vision is overloaded. He makes a blind leap away, feels a knife forcefully hit a spike on his gauntlet, sending twisting reverberations up and down his arm. As he hits the ground and starts rolling back up, his ears are assaulted by a pained shout.

The butler is crouching now, a knife going through his foot and into the floor keeping him grounded. A hand flashes into view from behind one of the bookcases, sending another knife flying his way. The Batman dodges, hears the knife pierce the door behind him with a thud. In an instant he is by the injured man's side. He pulls out the knife, grabs the man and carries him behind a bookcase before the killer can attack once more.

"D-don't worry about me," the butler says through clenched teeth, "There's a woman in here, she's still hiding in the pantry, two rooms behind him. You have to stop him!"

"**Stay here. The police will arrive soon.**"

He glides from bookcase to bookcase, inching ever closer to the door ahead. Judging by the lack of attempts at his life, the killer has already left this room. His assumption is soon proven correct as he reaches the last bookcase and opens the door. He peers out into the darkness, seeing no hint of his quarry's location among the furnishings of the dining room. He creeps out into the room, regulating his breathing and straining his ears. The only sounds are his own steady heartbeat and the pained breathing from the room he's just left behind. A glance back to the library shows no movement, the butler's safety still secure.

He reaches for the next door, his whole body tense, a batarang ready in his right hand. He swings open the door and enters the sparsely stocked pantry, finding it empty. He opens another door, peers out into an empty kitchen. He turns back, opens another door from the pantry, finds himself in the hallway. He creeps over to a row of small storage rooms, peers into one. From somewhere further back the floor creaks. He swings around and sets off through the darkness, walking back toward the foyer.

Fifteen steps in and there have been no more sounds. Whoever this man is, he's good. His step must be absolutely soundless, for him to have snuck down the hallway earlier without giving himself away. The woman is most likely no longer on this floor, or even in the house at all anymore. Now the killer has taken to stalking him instead, unaware that each minute brings the police closer.

The Batman notices a new crease in the crumpled carpet of the foyer only a fraction of a second before a knife comes flying out of the doorway to the living room. He presses himself against the wall and it whizzes harmlessly by. But now the killer has a clear route to the prone butler still lying in the library.

The Batman rushes in through the door from the foyer, sees the knife in the door between the living room and the library has disappeared. A second later he realizes that the butler is also missing. A small trail of blood drops on the ground leads off behind a bookcase and he starts for it.

His progress is halted by a cracking noise and a heavy impact into the back of his skull. He sees ceramic shards falling slowly to the ground and feels another hit to his head, this one sending him to his knees. Another swiftly follows, sending him completely to the ground, followed by a fourth, at which he slowly fades out. It may be his imagination, but he thinks he can hear the whisper of sirens in the distance.

* * *

><p>He wakes slowly, tries not to give it away. The first thing he feels is cold. Cold and a headache that thrums, each heartbeat making it feel like his skull is splintering. He can tell he's bound: Hands, feet and neck are secured to a table of some sort. It feels like his mask is still on, but the cape is nowhere in sight and the weight of his belt is missing. The room is a good deal colder than the murderer's apartment. He realizes he can hear someone else breathing a second before he feels a fist in his face.<p>

His eyes flutter open, rest for a second on the killer, then peer around the room. It's completely bare, apart from rows of hooks in the ceiling and the table he lies on. It is wide and dusty, with one door in sight, about a hundred feet away.

"You can look around. It's okay."

The madman stands perfectly still, staring down at him. He is still shirtless, the only visible clothing a pair of faded trousers. His skin is marred by scars, three rows of five and two singular ones. His voice is cold and detached.

"You can make noises, too. I don't judge."

The man walks closer. By the sound of it, his feet are bare as well. He raises his right hand, revealing a sharp knife.

"We are in a world of our own now. Just you. And me."

The knife moves down to his chest and makes a small cut. Blood quickly seeps out onto the symbol of the Bat.

"Do you see?"


	5. Chapter 5

He stares up into the man's emotionless eyes. He sees nothing in them. There is little hope in persuading the man, but he stalls for time anyway.

"**I don't know how you**," he flinches for a second as the knife cuts into him, "**got away from the police, but they will find you eventually."**

The knife glides along his leg, makes a tiny incision by the knee.

"I do not fear punishment. Freedom or not, I will accept my fate."

He cuts along the bicep, tearing through the suit's fabric**.**

"**Do you enjoy the fame? Hearing the news reports about the man that no-one could stop, the man who was too smart for the police? I guess you**'**ve made your mark on history, no matter how tiny."**

"Names mean nothing. We are all nothing but drops in the sea. We're simple. Bags of flesh, blood, bone. We follow our desires, nothing more, nothing less. We have no souls. There is no difference between us and the other animals. We mean nothing. Do you see?"

He cuts into the shoulder.

"**Then what are you after? Why did you write on the walls in the victim's houses? Who is free?**"

"They are. I ended their empty existence."

The knife slides along his body without cutting, goes down his leg, finally stops by the ankle, makes another little cut.

"**Why did you put the bodies into poses?**"

He cuts.

"I left them in death like they were in life. I watched them for weeks and believe me, it is hard to see the difference, before and after. Only now they don't have to suffer any more. They can rest forever. Do you see?"

He cuts. The Batman can feel the blood pouring out from his many small wounds.

"**So why am I still alive?**"

"You are something I've never seen before. I wanted to do this properly. I even had to give up on the other two just to get you here. The police no doubt managed to keep the old man imprisoned."

The Batman feels relief flow through him, even as the knife nicks him again.

"But it was worth it. You are something else entirely. It's almost as if you're not a zombie. You suffer, no doubt, but you have purpose. You've found your true calling. Much like me."

"**You need help. You**'**re completely removed from reality.**"

He cuts. The Batman can feel his heartbeat thudding louder and louder in his ears.

"Why do you want to defend them? It's pointless."

He cuts.

"Spend these last moments wisely. Look back on your life and see if any of it had a point, if any of the lives you refused to let go have served any purpose. If they have done anything but continue to go through the motions."

He cuts. Blood has started to flow toward Batman's bare hands and the ties that bind them.

"If you truly wanted to save them, you would be like me. You've seen how they suffer. Why not relieve them? The pain is yours for the taking! Stretch out and take it away! Save them, once and for all!"

"**You're not saving anyone. You take away people's choice, to save them from a suffering that exists only in your head. What you do is pure evil."**

The murderer immediately calms down as he cuts once more into the Batman's flesh.

"It doesn't matter. Good or evil, whatever you think you are, it doesn't matter. It is all nothing but empty illusion. They believe they are evolving, their morality and society growing greater and greater. They want to leave behind a legacy when they go, children to carry on their torch. But they are wrong. They do not know what they are: Empty shells that act on nothing but their desires. Nobody will be remembered. None of their dreams mean anything. Do you see?"

He cuts.

"**Then why not let them live out their pointless lives? What does it matter to you?**"

"Because they harm themselves without realizing. But I see it, the truth behind their little lives. "

He cuts.

"A long time ago, I was just like everyone else. Wandering aimlessly, trying to fulfill my desires, not realizing they never can be."

He cuts. The Batman is starting to feel dizzy, concentration is becoming harder and harder. His whole body aches from the tiny cuts.

"Then I lost everything. I had gambled all of my fortune away. I staggered along in the night drunk, shocked, reeling. And an angel came to me."

He cuts.

"He was a bum. With a knife in his hand and nothing in his eyes. He was going to kill me, for the pretty clothes I wore or for whatever cash he thought I carried, just to prolong his miserable existence."

He cuts. The soft, barely audible sound of blood-drops hitting the floor reach the Batman's ears.

"The suffering in his face, the hate in his snarling mouth, the stench of his breath. It was beautiful. He was like me. Exactly like me. I knew then that I had truly lost everything. And for the first time in my miserable existence, I could see. And ever since I have been delaying my own release just to bring it to others."

He cuts. The blood on the table is making the bonds slick, but the Batman's slowly moving hands are having trouble using it. Both mind and body feel sluggish.

"It's too bad this is your end. I can respect you, misguided as you are. But you need to die."

He cuts, slowly.

"I have trained for four years but still you are stronger than me, faster than me. If I met you again, under other circumstances, you would stop me. And that cannot happen."

The knife hovers above him, waiting for the final plunge. Its gleam is gone, dulled by the slick, red covering. It's been a long time since he was last hypnotized this way by one, tiny thing. Almost twenty years. But this time, it's not the end.

The knife moves.

"**I see**," he croaks.

The madman freezes. Stares down with dull, cold eyes.

"What do you see?"

The Batman breathes slowly, the rising and falling of his chest causing more blood to seep out.

"**I see my life and everything I have worked for. Every life I've saved. Every criminal I've put behind bars. Every injury I've suffered, every injury I've inflicted. Every friend, every enemy. And I feel nothing. None of it matters. This is a world where the strong survive, only because they are too simple to think. Trying to protect the weak and the innocent is foolish. This world is empty. And I want to be free.**"

He thinks he catches a peculiar gleam in the man's eyes, for only a second.

"**But I want to do it myself. It would mean more that way.**"

For what feels like an eternity, the knife hovers above him as the madman's eyes stare unblinking. Then slowly it comes down. The tight ropes around his right arm are slowly cut away, one by one. The knife is put in his hand, the madman's own tense hands closing around it, raising it and guiding it towards his neck. The Batman takes one last breath, puts his shivering, pained body out of his mind. He looks calmly into the man's eyes as the blade inches closer.

In a blindingly fast motion he jerks his arm toward his body, drawing the stunned madman closer. He manages one slice at the rope around his neck, but drops it as the man tries fumblingly to thrust it into his throat. It falls to the floor with a clank. He quickly grabs hold of the killer's retreating hand and slams it down into the steel table. With a heave the rope around his neck breaks completely and he raises himself as high as he can, tightening his hold as his surprised victim struggles feebly to break free of the steel grip.

He stares into the eyes of his reeling prey as they both tremble with the exertion of this bizarre arm wrestling. He pays the bleeding along his arm no heed, tries instead to come up with a plan to bring the man down before he can realize that he has his whole body to fight against one arm. The killer's head is too far away for him to reach it quick enough, letting go of the arm to attempt an attack will let him run for a weapon. He must draw the man in closer. Losing his hold means death.

The madman seems to gain his bearing. He stops trying to pull away and starts using his free hand to attack the fingers pressing into his skin. He tears at them madly to no avail. He soon abandons this plan and starts pummeling the exposed ribs, but his position is awkward and there is little force behind the blows. The Batman offers nothing but a grunt in reply. He does not stop increasing the pressure on the man's wrist. The killer moves on to hitting him in the face, but he can evade well enough for the blows to lose power. The two combatants are, for now, at a painful standstill. But time is not on the Batman's side. The exertion is causing his wounds to renew their bleeding, his dizziness quickly reminding him of its presence.

They carry on relentlessly, the Batman trying to draw his prey closer, the killer trying to pummel whatever soft spot he can reach without opening himself to attack. The sweat pours off him as he tries to free his numb, entrapped right hand. Apart from a clenched jaw he shows no sign of the pain he currently endures. Neither does the Batman. The painful stalemate continues.

Then suddenly there is a change in the madman's appearance. For a split second he loses his concentration. That is all it takes for the Batman to violently pull him closer. He meets the falling madman with a cracking headbutt. Before his opponent can recover, he lets go of the arm and goes for the head, bringing it down on the steel table with a loud slam. He feels rather than hears the nose break. He raises his victim up, sees the renewing struggles, and slams the head down again. And again. And again. And finally his foe is beaten, slumping over, bloodied and battered.

Then he hears what distracted the madman. The wailing of sirens in the distance, growing louder by the second. He quickly moves to work at his remaining bonds, ignores the violent spinning of the room and his hammering heart. By the time both hands are free the sirens have come to a definite stop just outside. By the time he starts working on the last restraint, he can hear a door in the next room being battered down.

He runs off the other way as the first officers pour in. He kicks through the backdoor and races through just as they catch sight of him. He runs into a nearby alleyway, starts clambering up a fire escape, his speed in this battered state surprising even himself. From the mouth of the alley he can hear a woman shouting.

"Commissioner! You're blocking my shot! The Batman's right there!"

A bewildered voice barks back.

"What? Where?"

He glances back to see the commissioner standing in front of an officer with her gun drawn, the latter looking frantically between the escaping vigilante and the man blocking her. Gordon aims his own gun this way and that, gawking at the darkness. Something in his stance and countenance remind the Batman of an owl. He can't help but chuckle, renewing the aching pain in his ribs.

He bites down and puts the pain and dizziness out of his mind. He clambers shakily to the rooftop and sets off running as a helicopter tries to point its searchlight at him. He increases his speed and jumps over the gap between this rooftop and the next. As he flies through the air his blood drips down to the streets below. A tribute of sorts, he thinks, his blood in stead of the people's. He lands with a thud and races along into the darkness. A smile forces its way to his lips. For now, his city is safe.


End file.
